


Secrets from a Drowned Man's Lips.

by Mishka10



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Drowning, Feelings, First Kiss, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Whump, detailed description of drowning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:34:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24872359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mishka10/pseuds/Mishka10
Summary: "Webbed hands clutch the front of his doublet, he finds himself staring back, into dead white eyes.He only just manages to get out a somewhat concerned, “oh dear,” before finding himself quite promptly dragged headfirst into the deep water below. "Jaskier was trying to stay out of the way, to stay safe, it's not his fault trouble seems to manifest wherever he happens to go.Really, it's not his fault no one mentioned there were things just lying at the bottom of ponds, waiting to kill you. He would have been more careful if they had.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 13
Kudos: 408





	Secrets from a Drowned Man's Lips.

Of all the ways he had thought about most likely dying, he must admit drowning had never made it to the top of the list.

Drowning, most of the time hadn’t even been _on_ the list. Look, he has the basics of swimming down, and he doesn’t exactly spend extended time on any boats, so not drowning rather just felt like a given.

Particularly given the long list of other things around in his life he had assumed were very capable of killing him off long before water became an issue. 

Evidently his list may require some revising.

There wasn’t supposed to be anything wrong with the water, no one said anything about the _water_.

It was something in the crypt they said. Something killing anyone who dared to get too close. So Geralt had gone into the crypt to deal with it.

And Jaskier was staying outside, in the graveyard. Alone. well, not completely alone, he supposes he did technically have Roach for company, but unlike Geralt he refused to sink to the level of desperation of talking to one’s horse.

The point is, they were _outside_. Where it was safe. Where he wouldn’t be killed and eaten by whatever monstrous being that was terrorising the town.

No one had said anything about the water. They hadn’t even bothered to mention the stagnant pond, located just on the edges of the graveyard.

It was as unremarkable as it was unpleasant, water an ugly grey in the evening light, much too murky and deep to make out the bottom.

He’s not even sure why he went over to look, to peer down, into the muddy depths, using it more as a mirror to see his own reflection than anything else.

Perhaps that’s why he hadn’t noticed anything, no movement, no shift, not even the faintest ripple offering a warning, before _it_ had burst free from the depths. 

Webbed hands clutch the front of his doublet, he finds himself staring back, into dead white eyes. 

He only just manages to get out a somewhat concerned, “oh dear,” before finding himself quite promptly dragged headfirst into the deep water below. 

His world rather quickly narrows around him. limited, now, to the murky blackness, unable to see his hands in front of his face. Not that he tries to for very long, the dirty water stinging his eyes, he squeezes them shut tight, useless as they currently are.

It’s cold. Gods is it cold. Most of what little breath he had is knocked out of him by the biting shock of the freezing water. He doubts he will last long without a chance to resurface.

He is aware of hands, slimy and smooth, wrapping around him, tugging insistently, down down down, further into the depths.

He kicks out. Uncoordinated and desperate. Feels his foot connect with something, hands scrambling to find it as well, bat away the being currently attempting to drown him.

He kicks out again, but it seems to do little for him, whatever it is that has him in it’s grasp pays little mind to his kicks. He can feel his lungs, just starting to burn. He had barely had the chance to take a proper gulp of air before being pulled down, he knows he won’t last long if he doesn’t get free soon.

His hands find the attacker, uncoordinated punches and hits proving as useless as kicking had.

His lungs are truly beginning to burn when scrabbling hands happen to land on a face, an eye socket. A thumb drives into the eyeball, feels it pop beneath the force, the webbed hands loosening in shock.

He yanks himself free. Desperate, lungs well and truly burning, screaming out for air. Pushes upwards. Gods, he hopes it’s upwards, hopes he hasn’t gotten turned around, completely disoriented, in the depths.

His head breaks the surface, gulping down a mouthful of air, gasping. He manages to stutter out a rather desperate cry of “help!”

Eyes still stinging he manages to get just enough of a look at his surroundings to realise with a feeling of pure terror that he has already been dragged a ways from the shoreline.

He manages another scream when something wraps around his leg. This time at least having the chance to gulp down a proper lung full of air before being pulled back down into the depths.

Eyes snapping shut his world is reduced to inky blackness once more. He kicks out, the action actually half doing something now that the main grip on him was round his leg. The offending hand releases him momentarily, returning before he has time to make it back to the surface.

Hands wrap firmly back around his legs, torso, arms. Dragging him down. He twists, turning, tugging, trying desperately to pull himself free once more.

Blunt nails scratch against his skin, digging in. Long, thin fingers tearing at his clothes, ripping them open.

Distantly, part of his brain becomes aware of the fact that there appears to be more than just one pair of hands currently tugging him down.

Even more distantly he thinks he can pick out the sound of splashing, a muted, distorted voice, crying out for someone. He doesn’t have the time to focus on it, the time to even attempt to try to make out the words.

His lungs are emptying quicker than he expected, quicker than he had hoped, already starting to sting. 

Something hits him in the chest, knocking more of what little breath he had left out of him. His mouth opens from the shock of it, dirty water instantly flooding in. He gags, snaps his mouth shut the best he can, mud already stuck to his teeth, rough and gritty on his tongue.

He wonders if he will die here, alone in the murky depths.

Wonders what Geralt will think, returning to find him gone. Will the man know what happened, know he has passed, or will the Witcher assume he finally got sick of it, turned tail and ran, mid job and all?

He wants to scream, knows he can’t. knows doing so would kill him. He kicks out, desperate, lungs on fire.

Something rough strikes him, cuffs him round the head. His head spins, a sharp pain exploding through his skull, mind completely disoriented, quickly losing any sense of direction.

A hand wraps around his arm, tight enough to be painful, yanks him firmly upward.

The limbs wrapped around his legs and torso tug back in protest, yanking him back down. Refusing to let go. They wrap even more firmly around him, hanging on tight.

The hand on his arm tightens more, wrenches him up with a determined tug. 

It works. He feels himself slide loose of the clasping and slimy hands.

He hears movement, as muffled and muted as it is. Feels the water swirl around him, something colliding with his body, knocking free the hold on his arm.

He tries not to panic, floating, alone, afraid, and completely disoriented.

He flails, desperate, trying to find purchase, trying to find the surface, lungs well and truly screaming out for air.

Suddenly, a hand breaches the surface, cold air hitting exposed fingers, 

He kicks out, desperate, pushing in the direction he now believes is up, and by some miracle, surfaces once again, gulping down the clean air. He swallows down a mouthful of mud and grit in the process, coughing and spluttering, trying desperately not to choke.

Something finds purchase, wrapping round his leg once more.

He screams, kicking out, franticly trying to get away. Feels his foot connect with something, the slimy hand sliding free. He tries to open his eyes, eyes stinging, vision much too blurry to make out a single thing.

Something grabs hold of his arm once more, a vice like grip, yanking him back and away, but not down, thank the gods, not down.

The grip shifts, a strong arm sliding around his chest, keeping him lifted, head above water, pulling him back.

He wants to cry when he feels hard ground beneath him, feet sinking into the mud, half dragged, he scrambles onto the hard ground. Hands sinking into the dirt and weeds. He coughs, chocking, spluttering, spitting out mud and bile.

He gags, a fine layer of dirt and grit refusing to leave his mouth. 

A heavy hand whacks him on the back, he choughs again, spitting up water. Blinks, rubbing at his eyes, trying to clean the mud from them instead. They still sting, an awful, burning pain, watery tears leak out to mix with the grime all over his face.

He finally manages to drag them open, blinking in the hope at least some of his site will return.

His head, he realises, is pounding. A dull, radiating ache, beating like a drum within his skull. He bites back curses, tipping forward, eyes sliding shut as he hacks up more bile. The hand returns to his back, rubbing in gentle circles against him.

He groans, hand reaches out, finds a firm leg to hold to, use to keep himself propped up, gasping, exhausted, feeling as though he is still fighting for breath.

Pries his eyes open once more, watery tears now well and truly streaming down his face. He chokes back a sob, daring to dab at one eye with the back of his sleeve. Slowly, his vision returns, blurry at first, before gradually clearing.

He realises he’s clinging to Geralt’s leg, arm wrapped firmly around it, as though still worried something will emerge from the depths to drag him back down. He manages a choked and spluttering, “fuck,” lungs still sore and aching.

Geralt grunts, awkwardly patting Jaskier on the back. He coughs again, sighs heavily, leaning against Geralt’s leg. The Witcher sighs, hand moving up to gently rub Jaskier’s shoulder.

“How do you feel?” Geralt asks, voice low and calming.

“…fuck,”

Geralt offers his shoulder a comforting squeeze.

“I feel… half drowned. Fuck.”

Geralt hums, “drowners, that’s what they do.”

“Fuck.”

“Can you stand?”

He takes a deep breath, sighs, nods, letting Geralt half drag him up, to his feet. 

He lets out another groan, tilting forward, head falling against Geralt’s chest. lets the Witcher keep him standing.

Geralt grunts, shifts uncomfortably but doesn’t push him away.

He lets out another tired and exhausted, “fuck,” feels Geralt burry a hand in his hair, soft and gentle. He sighs at the feeling, so soft and comfortable. Breaths in, instantly gagging and stumbling back. Fuck, whatever Geralt was coated in was absolutely vile.

He retches half bent over, straightens just to catch another whiff of it, promptly retching again.

Geralt offers a dry chuckle, seemingly not minding the smell himself.

He straightens up best he can, tries to ignore the wave of wooziness that settled over him, deciding to push through it, shake it off. Doesn’t miss the frown slowly growing on Geralt’s face.

“How are you Jask?”

He groans, so many questions, gods. How is he? He doesn’t fucking know. He goes for the practical answer, “tired… sore,” he sighs, looking down at himself, “I don’t think I’m hurt at least.”

Geralt’s frown deepens. Fuck.

“…you almost drowned.”

“I’m fine.”

Geralt snorts, eyes flicking out over the now once again still water, lip curling.

“I’m just a bit shaken up, that’s all.”

The lip curls further, into a pained half snarl, “you could have died,” the Witcher growls out.

“but I didn’t!”

“Dammit Jaskier, you almost died!”

It feels like a punch to the gut. He almost died. He sucks in a breath, suddenly cold, feeling the lack of sunlight, the night air a cruel combination to his soaked clothing. He shivers, a chill settling in his bones.

Geralt doesn’t notice, eyes dancing across the surface of the pond, not daring to so much as glance over at Jaskier. Geralt sighs again, heavy and uncomfortable, “I thought… I thought you had died.”

“…what?”

Geralt rubs a tired hand down his face, still refusing to meet Jaskier’s gaze, “I heard a scream and you were gone. I thought you were dead.”

He doesn’t know what to say. Stumbles out some words, rolling disjointed and messy off the tongue, “yes- well, I’m- I’m fine.”

“…you could have died. It’s not safe, having you around.”

He sucks in another breath, no longer noticing the sting of cold air, nothing able to freeze him more than those words just had. He doesn’t know how to respond. Doesn’t know if he would be able to if he did, if he would be able to choke out the words around the heavy ball of emotions filling his throat.

He follows Geralt’s gaze, staring out over the water, trying to hide the fresh wave of wetness now stinging his eyes. 

Geralt sighs again beside him, eyes finally flicking over to Jaskier once more, “I didn’t mean… It’s just not safe.”

He bites out a harsh laugh at that, _safe_. When was anything ever safe, “I didn’t intend to be half-drowned- I was being safe! I stayed outside!”

“And you still wound up half dead!”

“What else was I supposed to do!

“…I don’t know.”

He stops. Swallows, manages to choke out a question he needs answered, “would- do- do you want me to leave?”

Geralt stills, and for a second he thinks the man won’t answer, will leave the question hanging there, in the space between them. Souring the air with its implications.

The answer comes so quietly he almost misses it, “…no.”

Geralt sighs again, mutters out a half-felt, “fuck,” frown managing to deepen even further. “fuck. I don’t… know.” Geralt sighs, tries again, “I don’t want you to leave. But… perhaps that’s selfish of me to want.”

“No. no, I don’t want to leave either, I want to be here.”

“You almost died.”

“But I didn’t… I… I didn’t.”

“No. But you could have.” Geralt groans, eyes falling shut, “you could have and that… fuck. I- was… I am… scared.” Geralt says it almost as a whisper, little more than breathing out the word, letting it slip from his lips into the still night air.

Gods. If hadn’t known what to say before… “I… Geralt, I didn’t- I- “ he searches for the words, the way to say I was scared too, to say I can’t believe you would feel fear because of me, say how much it means to him, ~~say I love you~~ say something, anything.

“I’m not leaving.”

Geralt snorts, “Just like that huh?”

“Yes.”

Geralt chuckles at that, shakes his head, “good, good. I don’t want you to leave.” The Witcher smiles then, a small, slight thing, finally turning to look at Jaskier once more.

Jaskier’s smile drops almost instantly when a flash of fear crosses Geralt’s face the moment the man faces him. “Shit,” Geralt curses, moving briskly away to search through the one saddle bag they had brought, most of their belongings left in safety of the inn.

“what?”

“Your lips are turning blue. Fuck.” Geralt all but growls, searching somewhat frantically through the bag.

He almost wants to laugh, he had forgotten, in the mess of this, how cold he was, how tired and chilled and damaged. Reaches up to touch his lips, they feel like ice, but then so do his fingers.

Geralt tugs free a small blanket, he’s not even sure why they had it, why it was in there, not that it matters now he supposes.

Geralt wraps it round him tightly, pulling him into a close hug in the process, pressing their bodies together. He gently lets himself rest his head on Geralt’s shoulder. tries to ignore the stench of mud and blood and guts.

He sighs, feeling the warmth creeping back in “This is… nice.”

Geralt grunts, “it’s to keep you alive.”

Right. Keeping him alive. That was all.

He feels Geralt sigh, feels the heave of the Witcher’s chest, the hot breath against the back of his neck, before Geralt speaks again, quiet and uncomfortable, “but it is… nice.”

It is nice, he would be happy to stay there, let this moment stretch out, into eternity, just the two of them, shared warm fighting off the cold, world bright and clear in the rising moonlight.

But it cannot last.

He is cold and bloody. And by god does Geralt desperately need a bath. But perhaps he can take just another moment, another second, to just exist. Here and now, comfortable and protected.

He tilts, daring to look up at Geralt, eyes noting each little turn and quirk of Geralt’s face. Wanting to remember it, remember this moment, categorise it away and hold on to it as long as he can.

Geralt raises an eyebrow at him, questioning but not requesting, not forcing.

He’s not sure why exactly he does it. Perhaps it’s the last whispers of adrenaline, still strumming through his veins. Perhaps it’s the cold, the exhaustion, making him woozy, unable to think clearly. Or maybe it’s just the buzz, from hearing Geralt was scared, that Geralt cares. 

Whatever the reason he finds himself pressing in, pressing ice cold lips to Geralt’s.

The man doesn’t react to begin with. 

He has the time to think he fucked up. The time to run through everything that could happen next, Geralt yanking away, telling him he should leave after all. It would be justified; he would not blame the Witcher for such an action.

Then Geralt cups his cheek, pressing back ever so gently, and he sighs, in relief, in comfort, in joy.

They break apart slowly, when Jaskier’s shivering becomes too much to ignore, when he can stand the stench no longer, when they can bare too.

Geralt speaks, low and calm, “we should get you somewhere warm.”

He nods, not trusting his chattering teeth to manage a response.

Lets himself be bundled up onto Roach, fingers curling round the edge of the saddle, Geralt taking the reins, walking beside him, one hand resting on Jaskier’s thigh. Keeping him stable. Keeping him present.

Keeping him whole.

Knowing it will be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> -thanks for reading-


End file.
